


Save a Horse

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Kissing, Barn Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Broken Bones, Carrying, City boy Connor, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Connor's freckles get a tag because I can, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Flirting, Fluffy Ending, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Horny Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Horny Hank Anderson, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Makeup Sex, Mild Blood, Oh no. He’s cute., Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, Rancher Hank, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Stitches, Sumo is a menace, The Hobbit References, These horny bastards, safe sex, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “STERN!” Hank Anderson bellows from his front porch when his dog Sumo comes limping up the gravel drive. He knows the whelp of a rancher can’t hear him across all his acres, but still. It feels good to release his rage at the man.Everything had been fine until Mr. Toothpick and his too clean shoes bought the property across the way. Hank wasn’t even sure what the point of the land was to the man. From what he’d heard, Connor Stern was a city slicker that would sooner kiss a pig than perform manual labor.__Connor and Hank meet and strike up a feud on the same day. Things get interesting when Connor hurts himself on the job and Hank learns he is Connor's emergency contact.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 63
Kudos: 533





	Save a Horse

“ _STERN!_ ” Hank Anderson bellows from his front porch when his dog Sumo comes limping up the gravel drive. He knows the whelp of a rancher can’t hear him across all his acres, but still. It feels good to release his rage at the man.

Everything had been fine until Mr. Toothpick and his too clean shoes bought the property across the way. Hank wasn’t even sure what the point of the land was to the man. From what he’d heard, Connor Stern was a city slicker that would sooner kiss a pig than perform manual labor. No one really knew what he was up to at the old abandoned Kamski farm.

It had once been a lovely place, boasting fine cattle, houses of hens, and acre upon acre of crops. Then, the banks came down hard on Elijah Kamski and he’d vanished faster than a man running from an angry skunk. He’d heard rumors of embezzlement and that the farm had been a front for a more sinister line of work, but Hank chalked that up to bored country folk yammering for want of something better to do.

He supposed he could be neighborly and ask the kid himself, but it had been Connor’s own bad luck that his dog had struck up a feud before he’d finished unpacking on his very first night. Like most ranchers and farmers in these parts, Connor owned a dog. Unlike the rest of them, Connor’s dog was pocket-sized. An obnoxious, snarling Chihuahua with long, silken tresses.

Hank took one look at it and decided it looked like a rat in a wig.

If Hank was inclined to be fair, he’d admit the incident was largely Sumo’s fault. He’d taken a whiff of the crackerjack pup and fallen in doggy love. How Sumo thought he was going to pull it off was beyond Hank, but he gave it the old college try as he attempted to mount the rodent-like dog.

Before Hank could shoo Sumo away, the tiny Chihuahua had turned without a hint of warning and bit Sumo straight on the nose. The big dog had pulled back howling and Hank and Connor spent several minutes trying to separate the ferociously attacking teacup pup and the cowering Saint Bernard.

“Keep your fucking dog on a leash if it’s vicious,” Hank had spit. He’d risen to his full height, chest puffed wide.

He deflated like a whoopee cushion when Connor had poked him hard in the sternum, “Keep your dog off my property if it’s going to hump every animal it sees.” He’d leaned down to scoop up his dog and tucked her away inside the safety of his shirt. Her diminutive head poked out of the V-neck, mocking Hank with her lolling grin.

Connor kissed her head, muttering darkly about angry old men who should follow their own advice. Unease crept up Hank’s neck when he realized belatedly that Sumo hadn’t been on a leash either. Still, he wasn’t backing down so easily.

“Local Leos don’t take kindly to vicious dogs. She bites again, I’m reporting her.” He hooked a thick forefinger under Sumo’s collar, tugging him away.

Connor’s response set off a fire in his brain, “I doubt the authorities take kindly to trespassing either, Anderson. Now kindly get your ass off my lawn before I let Fifi here escort you herself.”

Hank knew the kid wasn’t kidding. He’d stalked away with a one-fingered universal gesture of contempt, grousing to Sumo the entire way back to his farm. Sumo didn’t have much input other than to stick his head gleefully out the beat up truck’s window, slobber flying, for the entire ride home.

It devolved from there. No matter what Hank tried, he couldn’t seem to get Sumo to stay away from Connor’s farm. Inevitably, the huge beast would come lumbering home with some injury or another from the tiny dog.

He didn’t really blame _Fifi_ (yeuck). He could never think her name without cringing at the infantilism. Still, Sumo was a very real threat to her and he didn’t begrudge her all that much. He admonished Sumo regularly for his ungentlemanly-like advances, but the big dog didn’t seem to absorb the lesson.

Mostly, Hank was just pissed that Connor did nothing to prevent it on his end. Hank had attempted to collar Sumo, to keep him penned in with the sheep, and a handful of other ways to dissuade him from wandering over to the renamed _Stern’s Stables_.

He’d tried talking reason to Connor after some time had gone by, figuring he might’ve lost the edge to his anger. He figured wrong.

“Don’t tell me where on my property my dog is allowed to roam, Anderson.” The next day, a fencing company had come out to give a quote for an electric fence. Hank’s vision had gone red at the sight and he found himself beating down Connor’s door, ready to fight.

“You think you’re so clever, you ignorant city fuck.” Hank had hurled into Connor’s face the moment he’d opened the door. “What happens when it’s your precious little rat that gets electrocuted?”

He counted it as a win when Connor only erected traditional worm fencing with chicken wire spread across. It did nothing to deter Sumo, as he simply tunneled under it.

When Connor had sent Hank the bill for the repair, Hank decided he’d never had a worse neighbor. While there hadn’t been any big explosions between the two of them since, their dislike for each other remained at an angry simmer in the background. Sumo’s near daily visits to Connor’s place kept up the slow burn of their ire.

What was more obnoxious about the entire situation is that _Stern’s Stables_ was doing remarkably well. Connor had revamped the place into a multi-purpose horse farm. Owners could rent out a stable if they lacked a barn of their own, kids could take riding lessons, and toddlers could go on pony rides. How he was managing it all was beyond Hank, and, quite frankly, he didn’t give a fuck.

Seeing Sumo limp up the drive, he’s decided he’s had enough. Either Connor can leash his dog or Hank is reporting it as a vicious animal. As Sumo draws nearer, Hank’s heart lurches. His paw is sodden with blood and the great brute of a dog moves as if in pain. The worst of it, though, is a very human, very bloody, handprint smeared down Sumo’s flank.

Hank knows the dangers of working a farm. He knows the lethality of the equipment and machinery ranchers use on a daily basis. Hank knows, but Connor is greener than a shamrock at the height of spring. A small part of him mutters smugly in his mind. He knew Connor wasn’t cut out for this line of work. The much larger majority of him is already on his feet, pulling his truck keys from his pocket.

Sumo tries to follow him and Hank squats down to meet the big dog’s sad, brown eyes, “Stay here, boy.” Sumo ignores him, shouldering past Hank’s legs and pulling his way up into the truck with three paws.

“Fine, you stubborn beast,” Hank exhales, shooing Sumo out of the driver seat, “but you’re staying _in the truck_ , got it?” Sumo gives him a big doggy grin despite his injured paw. Hank grimaces at it and makes his way to Connor’s as trepidation swirls in this gut.

He’s seen injuries on the farm before. They’re rarely simple and can prove fatal more often than most ranchers would like to admit. What had the brat done to himself? That much blood didn’t bode well.

He hears Fifi losing her absolute mind well before he pulls up Connor’s drive. She’s clearly distressed, yapping and howling in impotent fear. When Hank steps out of the truck, she’s cresting the hill the house rests on.

She looks like an absolute fright. Her fur sticks to her, slicked down with what Hank hopes is mud. She appears more skeletal and fragile than ever as she approaches. She takes several steps toward him, barks incessantly, then darts back over the hill. She repeats the gesture several times and Hank hustles his way up to her. He understands what she’s trying to convey: _follow me_.

His heart lurches when she leads him to Connor’s crumpled form, half buried under a fallen tent. He tries to gauge injuries, assess the damage, and keep an eye out for spooked animals all at once. A gash peeks out from Connor’s chest, but it’s shallow. His breathing is labored and his eyes droop alarmingly as he fails to respond to Hank’s shout.

Hank doesn’t like to think about what came next. The frantic call to 911, heaving the tent off Connor’s body, turning away to wretch at the sight of too much blood. It wasn’t a fatal bleed, but human blood in any amount over half a teaspoon made Hank’s stomach turn. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have the same problem with animals. He was able to clean up and tend to Sumo without issue while the EMTs took care of Connor. Most of the blood on Sumo wasn’t his own.

The police followed up with Hank several days later to assure him foul play wasn’t a factor, “Mr. Stern is conscious and talking today, Mr. Anderson. Turns out, something startled one of his horses. It kicked a cable holding up the tent, and the thing went flying. Lashed him pretty good across the chest and abdomen. He’ll be ok in time, but he won’t be doing anything too physical until he heals up a bit.”

Hank nodded his thanks and waited until the officers pulled out of his drive. Something tickled at his brain, poking at Connor’s story. It lined up for the most part with what Hank saw, but something felt off. Eyeing Sumo’s paw, realization settles into unpleasant little piles in Hank’s belly.

Hank can’t sit still after that. He itches to move, to do something—anything—to take his mind off Connor.

“It’s not your fault,” Hank mutters to himself, pressing his palms into his eyes. Sumo whines and Hank pats his head absentmindedly.

He considers going to visit Connor in the hospital, but what could he say? In the end, it’s the hospital that forces his hand. They call a day after the police stopped by.

“Hello, is this Mr. Anderson?” A pleasant voice greets him and Hank grunts his affirmation.

“Excellent,” the woman continues, “I’m with Beaumont Hospital. I’m calling because Mr. Stern is ready for release.”

Hank stares blankly for three breaths until the woman asks hesitantly, “Hello? Mr. Anderson?”

It startles Hank into speaking, “Yeah. Why are you telling me this?” It comes out a bit rougher and ruder than he intended, but confusion edges out his manners.

The woman clears her throat, “Well, Mr. Anderson, you’re listed as Mr. Stern’s emergency contact. We have no other number on file and we can’t release him as he is now without someone to see him home.”

The fact that Connor listed his cantankerous neighbor who he loathed as his emergency contact ripples unpleasantly into Hank’s memory bank. He’d never had the chance for small talk with the Stern kid before their fight kicked off. He didn’t realize Connor was truly tackling this on his own.

Which was stupid. Hank should know. He’s been trying to pull off the same for years. He at least had the advantage of experience on his side.

“Yeah, alright,” he grumbles against his will, “I’ll give the kid a ride.” The woman thanks him, her tone clipped and clearly disapproving of Hank’s reticence, before ending the call.

His irritation boils over into outright anger when he reads over Connor’s discharge papers, “He needs _what_ now?” His tone comes out a snarl, but the nurse is utterly unaffected by it.

She arches an eyebrow and fixes Hank with a look that would do Nurse Ratched proud, “Am I to take it you can’t handle simple care instructions?”

Hank tries and fails to equal her sharp stare and he deflates with a dejected, “No, but—”

She interrupts with a vicious verbal uppercut, “Is it too difficult to keep an eye on him while he’s on narcotics, or would you rather he fall down the stairs and tear open his stitches?”

It’s a nasty, vivid mental image and Hank cringes away from the nurse. Nonplussed, she presses the issue, “Perhaps you’d rather he attempt to continue to care for those farm animals with two broken ribs?”

Hank stares at her in confusion, “Broken ribs?”

She sighs a sound that lets Hank know she thinks he is less intelligent than a slug, “Yes, dear heart. That’s pretty typical when a horse kicks a man in the chest.”

Evidently, the cops had left out a few salient details on giving Hank the rundown of what happened to Connor.

“He’s going to be in rough shape for at least a month. He won’t fully heal for six weeks _assuming someone helps him_.” She enunciates the final words as if anyone who dares to leave Connor on his own deserves a beating or worse.

Hank snatches at the paper and mutters darkly in her direction as he watches another hospital employee wheel Connor out to the curb. It’s some work to get Connor into the truck and Hank doesn’t relish helping him get out of it by himself once they get back to the farm.

Pulling into _Stern’s Stables_ , Hank kills the truck and looks at Connor for the first time since picking him up from the hospital. _Really_ looks at him. He’s pale with dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t solid rest in days. Freckles dot his face at random and a small, dark mole pokes out of Connor’s shirt resting somewhere high on his collarbone.

 _He’s attractive_ , a disgruntled voice takes note in Hank’s brain. _How annoying._

If Connor was incompetent and ugly in addition to being a terrible neighbor, it would be a lot easier to hate him. A shallow, bullying opinion perhaps, but Hank isn’t inclined to think kind thoughts at the moment. Not when he’s playing doctor with a mouthy upstart.

Connor may be smaller than Hank, but he’s still a full-grown man. He’s lucky he’s slender, or Hank would have trouble supporting his near dead weight. This theory is put to the test almost instantly when they reach the front porch. Connor can’t seem to get his legs to comply with the over-tall farm steps. His stitches clearly pain him and whatever narcotic he’s on has him slightly addled.

Hank doesn’t _scoop_ Connor. He _doesn’t_. He just happens to lift him from under the knees to get him over his threshold. He does his best not to dump Connor onto the couch, but the low groan he makes leads Hank to believe he wasn’t all that successful.

Hank reads over Connor’s prescriptions and discharge instructions thoroughly for want of something to do before putting them away. The longer Connor sleeps, the antsier Hank grows. He doesn’t want to be here, in Connor’s house. He doesn’t want to know how the other half lives, quietly content to hate him from the tips of his curling brown hair to the toes of his worn work boots.

Seeing walls lined with bookshelves—many of Hank’s favorites—annoys him. Finding a liquor cabinet well stocked with top-tier whiskey—definitely Hank’s preferred brands—is obnoxious. Turning up a TV cabinet full of old cartridge games for the N64, Super Nintendo, and even older consoles—cherished childhood memories for Hank—sets his teeth on edge and his temper to a rolling boil.

He and Connor could’ve been friends if it weren’t for his stupid rat dog.

Fifi chooses that moment to pop her tiny, fluffy, filthy head out from under Connor’s couch. Hank’s stomach lurches when he takes in her appearance. It’s been _days_ since anyone’s been to the property. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t realized, no one was taking care of Connor’s dog.

Even if she hadn’t been small enough to fit in Hank’s palm, she would still look pathetic. Weak with hunger and dehydration, no one’s cleaned her since Connor went down. Trying to triage the situation, Hank decides the bath can wait. Her tail perks up briefly when she hears the tinkle of dog chow in a bowl. The kibble bits are an eighth of the size of Sumo’s but she wolfs them down just as voraciously.

Bathing her proves a great deal easier than Sumo. She fits in the sink and gives Hank minimal fuss. Evidently, she could set aside her vendetta against him and his dog in favor of being fed and washed. Rusty water swirls down the drain and her usual coloring returns to her fur in slow increments. She trots over to Connor, still a bit weak, and curls wetly onto his stomach.

She emits a low growl when Hank approaches, a warning not to move her, but she quiets down when he drapes a towel over her shivering back. She even licks his hand a bit before he pulls away. He definitely does not flinch in surprise. It’s what he tells the still sleeping Connor, anyway.

Perusing the shelves once more, Hank settles down with a familiar title running up a cracked spine. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but Connor’s parched voice startles him into full, abrupt consciousness, “S’my fav’rite.”

Hank leaves _The Hobbit_ resting on his stomach to mark his page, “I imagine you would like a story about someone completely out of his depth but charging onward in spite of his inexperience.” His voice lacks rocks, but Connor recoils as if Hank pelted him with gravel all the same.

“As I recall,” he begins after clearing his throat, “that particular someone refused to let a greedy king destroy everything he’d worked for.”

Hank _harrumphs_ at that, but the kid had a point, “Yeah, well, don’t go casting me as the dwarf that snuffs it in the end.”

Connor mumbles something that sounds a great deal like _bear_ before cackling to himself. Hank eyes him warily before remembering the punk is on strong drugs and likely not 100% cognizant at the moment.

Connor blinks slowly, confirming Hank’s suspicions, “What’re you doing here?”

Hank points at the mess of hospital papers on Connor’s oak-colored coffee table, “Apparently, I’m listed as your emergency contact.” He lets his words sink into Connor’s brain, waiting for some kind of explanation.

Connor grimaces, “Oh, fuck.”

Hank barks out a laugh. He can’t help it. It does nothing to ease Connor’s discomfort.

“So ya gonna tell me why I’m stuck playing nanny to you for the next six weeks?” Hank prods when Connor clams up tighter than a bank vault.

Connor jerks his head away before mumbling, “I don’t know anyone else out here. Not…not really.”

Hank can tell it costs him something to admit it, “Jesus, Connor. We’re not even friends. Why the fuck—” he cuts himself off when Connor’s face crumples.

 _Hank, you moron,_ he chastises himself.

Connor doesn’t have any friends out here. He’s new and Hank had done his level best to bad-mouth him to the few locals in the area. Connor rolls a shoulder as if warding off Hank’s thoughts. He winces and a hand flies up to clutch his ribs. This is swiftly followed by a grunt of pain as his fingers graze the tender stitching beneath his shirt.

“Well,” Connor says finally, voice ragged with pain, “that’s going to leave a mark.” Hank didn’t doubt it. He’d seen some of the gash before the medics had shown up to ferry him away. Even the most delicate of hands would have a hard time healing that wound without a nasty scar.

“Hungry?” Hank asks after a prolonged moment of awkward silence. Connor shakes his head. “Thirsty?” He’ll force that issue if he has to. He doesn’t want Connor’s psycho nurse tearing him a new one if Connor winds up back in the hospital for dehydration. Thankfully, Connor nods at that one.

Hank lumbers to his feet, cracking his back in a stretch on the way. He tugs at the hem of his flannel, acutely aware of Connor’s eyes on him. Stalking off to the kitchen, Hank returns with a glass of water and some protein drink he’d found in Connor’s fridge.

“You’re gonna need nutrients if you want me out of here faster. Drink.” He nudges at the protein bottle and Connor leans forward toward it with a twist on his face. Too late, Hank remembers his broken ribs.

“Oh, goddammit,” he makes a grab for the drink and thrusts it closer to Connor’s reach. “I don’t know how to do this doctor bullshit. Ask me for help if you need it.” Connor’s eyebrow lifts and his lips twitch when Hank says _doctor_ but he nods his understanding.

Hank hadn’t considered the fact that Connor would need to shower at some point. Dogs he could handle. Men? Well. It felt wrong to handle Connor’s battered body while he was high as a kite. He hadn’t wanted to attempt a shower without a full dose of pain pills and he became rather mouthy when in the grips of Percocet.

 _Flirty_ his brain corrected.

He never crossed any lines far as Hank could tell, but he definitely made the big man uncomfortable on several occasions. He emitted a soft laugh anytime Hank laid a hand on his waist. He couldn’t be sure if some ghost of a tickle tugged the sound from Connor’s chest or if it was something more primal. It didn’t sound amused. If anything, it sounded inviting.

Which was absolutely ludicrous because Connor hated him and Hank returned the sentiment. Every load of laundry he did for the half bed-ridden man, every dish he washed, and every time he walked his stupid little dog, Hank added a mental tally to all the things Connor owed him when he was better.

The shows they watched when pain kept Connor from sleep, the soups he spoon fed him when Connor’s ribs ached too much to move at all, the books he read him to distract him from the discomfort as they weaned him from the narcotics to less potent ibuprofen—those things weren’t so bad. Connor seemed almost human in those moments.

Things change in the shower.

Connor can’t raise his arms. He can’t twist or bend or do any of the things a person does in the course of washing grime from his body and oil from his hair. Connor, much like Hank, hadn’t come to this realization until he’s already naked under the spraying jets of warm water.

“Hank?” Connor calls through the cracked door and Hank can tell straight away he’s not going to like whatever Connor’s about to tell him, “I’m, uh, stuck.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hank glowers before shouldering the door out of his way. Connor’s house is a mirror of his own, which had made maneuvering it simple enough. The doors also shared the annoying feature of being heavy, solid wood that swelled in the humidity. It took some oomph to get it to move.

He stumbles and stares, taking in Connor’s lithe, well-soaped form. He understands the problem in an instant, but it takes three slow blinks for him to move. Connor burns under his stare but says nothing to deter him. In fact, he appears to stand a little straighter, his posture urging: _Go ahead. Look at me._

“Can’t reach?” Hank asks weakly, not sure why Connor isn’t covering himself. Not sure if he wants him to, honestly. After waiting on his beck and call for days, it doesn’t hurt to have something nice to look at for his trouble.

_Hank, you dirty old fucker._

He shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts before lifting his gaze to meet Connor’s eyes, “Rinse off. We’ll wash your hair in the bowl.” He gestures to the sink and Connor nods. Both men know exactly who will be doing the washing, but it’s easier for Hank to act as if Connor is participating. He hopes it will be less intimate that way.

He holds a towel in Connor’s direction without looking at him, waiting until he tugs it from his grip to make himself decent. His bones try to leap free of his skin when Connor taps him on the elbow. Hank draws a chair from a nearby vanity with a snort. It would figure Connor would utilize it. Hank’s sat collection dust without a seat.

“Lean forward,” Hank intonates and Connor complies without argument. Hank arches an eyebrow at that. Connor usually had a quip to say about almost everything Hank asked him to do. The physical therapy exercises the nurse had included had proven to be a torturous exercise thus far. Connor complained throughout the entire process and Hank had considered stuffing his ears with cotton.

Noticing Connor’s wide eyes, he touches him on the back of the neck, “Close your eyes.” Connor shivers and Hank ignores it, “Don’t want soap gettin’ in them. You’d gripe at me for days.”

Connor’s posture relaxes and a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His eyes drift shut and Hank runs the faucet.

“Fuck,” Connor tries to jerk back and nearly topples from his chair. Hank catches him, the image of torn stitches and blood jumping to the forefront of his mind if he doesn’t make the grab in time. Connor hisses in pain from his ribs, but it’s not nearly as bad as a fall would be.

Hank’s hands don’t seem to want to let go. Connor’s heart hammers between them as he grinds his teeth, “Cold.”

Hank realizes he’d run ice-water over Connor’s head. He has to resist the urge to smack his face against the wall.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, releasing Connor with some reluctance as if worried he might fall still. He’d felt so fragile in his grip. He makes a show of mixing the taps until the water comes out a tolerable temperature.

Connor resumes his position slowly. He melts against the countertop when Hank’s fingers begin to graze his scalp. It is as intimate as Hank had feared it would be. Connor’s spine displays itself to him like it too wants to be touched. It vanishes into the fluff of the towel wrapped around Connor’s trim waist.

 _Good lord, I need to get laid_ , Hank thinks to himself. How long had it been since he’d taken anyone to his bed? Too long if he’s kindling up randy thoughts over this asshole.

Connor groans and Hank’s hands freeze, “Am I hurting you?”

Connor mumbles _No_ and a hint of pink spreads up his neck and disappears into his hair.

 _He likes this_ , Hank’s traitorous mind whispers to him and he firmly slams a mental door in its face. Even if that were true, it doesn’t matter. Hank doesn’t like Connor. He’s self-entitled and annoying. He has a stupid dog even if it appears to have declared a truce while he helps Connor heal. Connor’s tolerable enough company, he supposes, when tired and incapable of running off his mouth. He also has great taste in liquor and movies and books and—

Hank inhales sharply through his nose, exhaling that train of thought. It didn’t matter what they had in common. He’s too old for Connor anyway.

 _I thought you didn’t like him_ , Hank’s inner-self needles at him and Hank decides scientists need to figure out how to fire a subconscious. Hank’s isn’t doing him any favors.

He helps Connor towel dry his hair and this too proves to be a mistake. Connor is tall, but Hank is taller than most. Connor has to look up to him. His gaze as naked as he is, Hank decides Connor mostly looks…lost. Alone.

He has to wrench his eyes away from that stare. He doesn’t want to feel compassion for the man. He doesn’t want to see anything there other than maybe a mutual snarl of dislike.

He doesn’t want to see a mirror of his own loneliness.

He helps Connor into his pajamas and tries to scurry from the room the moment he’s settled under his covers.

Connor calls out a quiet, “Hank.” Hank’s feet freeze without his initiative, as if his entire body doesn’t care what he wants.

“Yeah,” he answers with heavy resignation.

Connor hesitates and he considers fleeing while he has the chance. Connor isn’t completely off the narcotics yet. He’s prone to bold declaration and sassy retorts while under their influence, but Hank is certain whatever he’s about to say is going to shift their paradigm permanently.

“I just—I just wanted to say thank you. For doing all this, taking care of my dog. Of me. I know you didn’t have to.” Hank’s about to interrupt that the nurse hadn’t given him much choice, but he knows it isn’t true. He could’ve dumped Connor in his house and left him to his own devices. He hadn’t. He’d made the choice to stay.

Guilt is also a heavy motivator, “Yeah, well. I’m pretty sure it’s my dog chasing after yours that spooked the horse so…” Hank trails off and Connor neither confirms nor denies.

Connor’s voice lances through Hank’s guilt to pierce at his heart, “I know you don’t like me. Thanks for staying anyway.”

It would take a monster to walk away from that without saying anything. Connor may have snarkily compared Hank to a bear his first night home, but Hank knew _The Hobbit_ well. In the tale, Beorn was a compassionate man at heart even if he could take on the visage of a beast. Connor’s comment had made its mark better than he could’ve known.

Hank sighs and sags under the weight of acknowledging a truth he’d been dodging for days, “I like you fine, Connor.” Connor’s face lights up brighter than the sun and Hank has to look away from it before it renders him blind. He reminds himself furiously that Connor is on drugs.

“Your dog, though,” Hank mumbles. “Dunno ‘bout her.” His tone is light and Connor snorts, dimming the wattage of his smile to a more manageable expression of amusement.

 _That was a mistake_ , Hank glowers at himself the minute he’s away from Connor’s room. He’d opened a door he never meant to. He liked his solitary life with Sumo. He liked not having to answer to anyone and keeping the world at arm’s length. Now he’s gone and given Connor the impression that he wants to be friends.

It was easier to think clearly when Connor wasn’t around. He was infuriating and befuddling and—

 _Attractive_.

Hank growls at himself in annoyance. This kind of thinking wasn’t helping. The only thing for it was to pull back how much help he extends to Connor going forward. Of course, he would do whatever the discharge papers said, but he’d not lift a finger more than that.

Having to keep up with his own farm made it easy to start cursing Connor’s name again. He didn’t have time for this babysitting crap. He had pigs to feed and wheat to thresh and laborers to hire to help him during the peak of the season. Connor was a grown-ass man. Surely, he could manage for the day without Hank. Connor didn’t need Hank to hold his hand to take a piss.

Sweat pricks at Hank’s temples the longer he works, corralling unwilling pigs with Sumo’s help. Hank points at one particularly ornery pig while announcing, “ _You_ are going to wind up as bacon if you don’t stop acting like a right shit.” The pig oinks at him in contempt. It has several splotches on its hindquarters that remind Hank of freckles. He decides to christen the pig _Connor_ and grins to himself. It’s the little things, really.

His good mood trickles away as he kicks off his mucked-up boots by Connor’s door. The house is too quiet. He feels like a trespasser as he creeps down the halls and up the stairs. Connor’s door is open and a faint odor tickles at Hank’s nose as he approaches the bed. It doesn’t take a doctor to know something is terribly wrong.

Connor had looked pale to him this morning, true. His stitches had looked angry red, but no more so than the day before. Now, his skin could rival milk in its whiteness. Cherry blossoms bloom in high hectic marks on his cheeks and his breathing is much too fast.

When Hank reaches out to touch his forehead, Connor flinches then groans in pain. His skin is wicked hot but Connor had burrowed himself under layers of blankets like a too-thin caterpillar attempting to form a chrysalis. Calling on a gentle calm he usually reserves for farrowing, Hank peels back the layers of Connor’s sickly, sour cocoon.

Hank expected it before he saw it, but the drainage around the stitches kicks him in the gut. He’d been gone for most of the day and it’s well after business hours. He could drag Connor to the ER he supposes, but he’s worried about moving him.

“Hank?” Connor’s voice falls out of his mouth weakly and Hank kneels to hear him better. “Medicine.”

Hank has to resist the urge to snarl in frustration. Of course, he knows Connor needs medicine. He’s not an idiot.

 _Then why did you leave him alone all day?_ Hank’s conscience snarks at him darkly. He really, _really_ needed to fire that guy.

Connor’s unnaturally hot fingers fall in a slow, graceful arc as his arm unrolls across the bed. Hank’s eyes follow where he’s pointing and sees a small white bag resting on top of an armoire. He’d completely forgotten he left it there. It was full of _just in case_ medicines assuming Connor should develop any complications from his injuries like an infecti—

Hank takes it back. He _is_ an idiot.

He nearly stumbles over his own feet in an effort to get to the bag. He doesn’t need a thermometer to know Connor’s temperature is dangerously high. He needs antibiotics and a fever reducer in his system _now_.

Hank sleeps by Connor’s bed that night. So stupid and entirely his fault. So arrogant and self-assured that Connor was fine, that he was somehow faking the severity of his injuries when Hank had seen the immediate aftermath of what caused them. The rocking chair isn’t comfortable, but like hell is Connor going to di—

He doesn’t follow that train of thought to its conclusion. Connor isn’t in any immediate danger anymore. The fever is still present, but it’s manageable. The antibiotics will take a little time, but he should be noticeably better within twenty-four hours. Hank knows these things but they do nothing to ease the tight knot of guilt.

The next morning, Hank awakes with a start and an aching back. He feels as if he slept draped over a boulder. Glancing around blearily he realizes what woke him; a rooster crows from somewhere in the yard and he mutters several curses.

“That’ll be Hank,” Connor muses quietly and Hank looks at him questioningly. The man struggles to sit upright and raises his hand when Hank reaches out to help. He manages it under his own steam. He gestures to the window, “My rooster. He’s loud and stubborn. I call him Hank.” Connor shoots him a shit-eating grin and Hank’s insides pulse with relief that he’s well enough to crack jokes at Hank’s expense.

“Oh, yeah?” Hank asks, less annoyed than he would’ve been back before Connor got himself into this mess, “I got a Connor myself. Likes to roll in the mud and be a general pain in my ass.”

Connor snorts and looks out the window, suddenly pensive, “Is that where you went yesterday?”

“Well, yeah,” Hank begins a touch defensively. “I have a business to run still. The pigs don’t need tending any less just because I have you to take care.”

Connor flushes and it reminds Hank unpleasantly of his fever, “I wasn’t sure if you were coming back.” It shouldn’t hit Hank so hard, but the comment lands like a swift jab to the diaphragm.

“Of course I was coming back. What kind of ogre do you take me for?” Hank gives Connor the easy jab, wills him to pick up the insult so he knows everything is ok between them.

Connor’s mouth remains neutral but his eyes glitter, “A smelly one.” They hold each other’s gaze; Connor breaks first and laughs, “You can use my shower if you’d like. You smell like a barn.” When Hank finishes showering, Connor is asleep again. Though weak from the infection, his coloring is better as the antibiotics go to work.

Things ease in fractions after that. Hank isn’t stingy with his help and Connor improves as the weeks progress. Hank thought it would be terrible to live with another person, but it’s much easier to stay at Connor’s place than trek back and forth each morning and night.

He’s also paranoid after that first setback and can’t quite stop himself from checking in on Connor in the middle of the night when he wakes up to take a piss. He’s even more handsome in his sleep, which is distinctly unfair. Hank had had lovers inform him he snored with his mouth agape and drooling at night. Not a good look. Connor, in contrast, looks peaceful and perfect.

An unidentifiable strain creeps into the spaces between them as Connor’s recovery drags closer to the sixth week. Hank feels the heat of it when he leans over Connor to help him reach a mug. The man could be more stubborn than a mule now that he is feeling better but isn’t fully mended. Hank catches him rising on tiptoe, trying to stretch his still-sore ribs to grasp a mug from the top shelf.

Hank sighs, clomping over to him. He looms without thinking and his chest brushes against Connor’s back. Connor hadn’t said or done anything other than mumble _thanks_ , but something about the interaction stuck to Hank’s brain. He can’t stop thinking about it, about Connor’s smaller frame pressed between his chest and the counter.

He dismisses the memory every time it drifts into his head while he’s threshing, feeding pigs, or readying fields for the next season. It slips in unbidden while he’s hosing off Sumo and he sprays the dog full in the face for five unyielding seconds. It isn’t until he hears the snapping of Sumo’s jaws that he realizes the big dog is taking bites out of the streaming water.

He dreams about it that night, he knows, but he can’t seem to hold onto any of the pieces. It shatters and vanishes into the corners of the room when the rooster crows and startles him out of sleep’s warm embrace. His uncomfortable arousal gives him a burning, blushing suspicion as to the nature of the dream. He retrieves a mug for Connor before he can hobble down the stairs and avoids another close encounter.

Even if he’s less curmudgeonly about his role as caretaker, it doesn’t reduce the stress he’s under. Between his farm and fussing over Connor, he’s burning his candle at both ends. He doesn’t have time to decipher the strange energy between Connor and himself. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the way Connor always appears to be watching him or his soft smile anytime Hank thinks to do something for him without being asked.

He doesn’t have time for it, but the thoughts come unbidden to him anyway. Hank isn’t a stupid man, but he’s a skilled practitioner of self-delusion. Admitting to himself _why_ he frets over these thoughts, _why_ he daydreams about Connor’s smile, _why_ he can’t forget the sensation of Connor pressed to his chest—it would be the end of him. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Hank is used to wanting things he can’t have so he lets it lie.

There’re still a few days left until Connor’s six week check-up. Hank has a few more days to indulge and enjoy Connor’s company without needing to invent reasons. He’s here to make sure Connor doesn’t hurt himself and that’s all there can be between them. He’d made damn sure of that the first time he met Connor.

“Hank?” Connor calls from his bathroom and Hank heaves himself to his feet. He’d been considering taking a nap under the pretense of reading a book. He’d forgotten the time.

Gripping the rail tight to hide the shaking of his hand, he tries not to look like he’s staring at Connor’s half-naked body. He’s lithe and dotted with freckles and a few moles. They look like a farmer grabbed a handful of chicken feed and scattered it in the wind, landing wherever they pleased. The scar was already beginning to fade from angry red to slightly concerned pink. If he was lucky, it would fade to something approaching his skin color. It would always be a thick line of scar tissue, though. A constant reminder of the unseen dangers that lurked on the farm.

Connor could manage the ointment on his own now, but placing the bandages still proved tricky in places. Hank wondered if Connor was stalling for want of company—not necessarily Hank’s, but someone’s—because he seemed perfectly capable of almost everything else by this point.

Hank kneels between Connor’s legs on the vanity rug, cutting long strips of bandage and placing them over the injured skin. Connor’s torso erupts in gooseflesh when Hank’s work-roughened fingertips brush his skin in places.

“Sorry,” he mutters, never taking his eyes off his task. If he had, he would’ve seen warm brown eyes watching him work.

As he’s smoothing the last of the bandages into place, Connor’s hand moves in his peripheral. It takes him two panicked breaths to realize Connor is cupping his face. His thumb swipes across Hank’s cheek.

“You have some dirt here,” he says quietly, as if that allowed this much familiarity. Still, Hank can’t move and his palm remains flat over the bandage. He can feel the over-hard thudding of Connor’s heart.

Connor’s fingers apply gentle pressure under Hank’s chin and he rises to the full height his knees will allow. He’s staring at Connor’s collar bones.

“Look at me.” It’s not a command, but Hank complies all the same. He feels caught in a trance or maybe a dream. Connor is too close. Hank can count his eyelashes as the inches between them shrink to centimeters. Connor’s breath is warm and smells like spearmint. The sun is setting early behind him as if the changing seasons are colluding with Connor to make him look as picturesque as possible.

Connor closes most of the distance, but he hesitates in that last final inch. Impossible desires urge Hank to surge forward, to captures the offer between his lips. He can’t. Connor’s eyes drift closed in anticipation of a kiss that won’t come. Hank tries to be gentle when he pulls Connor’s finger away from his cheek. Judging by Connor’s wounded expression, Hank has all the finesse of a bucking bull.

“Get out,” the words leave Connor’s mouth quiet and frosty like the first snowflakes marking the death of fall.

Hank rushes to explain himself, “Connor, I—it wouldn’t—I don’t want—”

“You made it clear what you don’t _want_ ,” Hank hears the emphasis on the word. He knows this is the moment to say something, to fix his bumbling. His throat fails him, constricting around honest words.

Connor deflates, “I’m well enough to get along on my own now. Have been for a few days. I don’t need you and you don’t want to be here. You can go. Thanks.” The final word comes out flat and paper-thin. Connor won’t look at him anymore. The least Hank can do is stop hurting the man so he goes.

He leaves, but Connor won’t let him be. He haunts his dreams. He plagues Hank’s waking hours, wondering if he’s alright. Then Hank chastises himself. Connor’s a grown man. He’ll be fine. They’ll fall back into their usual routine soon enough. His yappy dog will nip Sumo on the nose and that will be the end of it.

By the fifth day of radio silence, Hank has half a mind to march over to Connor’s and demand an explanation. Connor hasn’t reopened the stables and Hank hasn’t seen or heard from Fifi since he skulked out of Connor’s house.

A _For Sale_ sign at the end of Connor’s gravel drive forces his hand. Bits of rock fly from under Hank’s tires as he takes on Connor’s driveway at an inadvisable speed. He skids to a stop and a part of his brain grumbles that he likely tore up part of Connor’s lawn. He staunchly ignores it in favor of stomping up Connor’s front porch and banging his fist against the door.

Connor rips it open as if he’d been waiting for this moment, “What do you want, Anderson?”

Hank hears the venom and he surges past it into Connor’s personal space. Pointing behind him vaguely at the sign neither of them can see, he spits, “The fuck is this _For Sale_ business?”

“None of your concern,” Connor hisses back. He moves to shut the door in Hank’s face, but Hank slams one giant palm against its center.

“The hell it isn’t,” Hank’s voice drops to a low, dangerous growl. It does nothing to cow Connor’s attitude.

“Oh?” Connor arches one sardonic brow, contempt dripping from his lips like honey from a comb, “ _Enlighten me_.”

The last vestiges of restraint snaps inside Hank’s chest. _Nobody_ talks to him like that. Especially not scrawny, entrepreneurial twerps. His fingers fist into Connor’s shirt and he hears the man hiss. Hank isn’t sure if it’s the fresh scar tissue or Connor’s recently healed ribs that he jostled and he doesn’t care. This brat is going to learn today, Hank will make sure of that.

The air punches from Connor’s lungs when Hank hauls him into a sudden kiss. Whatever retorts he’d been readying, he didn’t have a snappy comeback for this.

Tension arcs up Hank’s spine, across his shoulders, and down his forearms. He’s ready for Connor to lash out at his with words or fists. He stores the memory of the way Connor’s lips feel against his, so certain this will be his one and only chance to taste them before Connor is gone.

Hank nearly breaks away when shaking hands press against his back. Connor’s chest molds to Hank’s and his tongue slashes across Hank’s bottom lip. Hank’s mouth drops open on instinct and the taste of spearmint follows soon after.

The rush to the bedroom is easy; Hank knows the way and he could navigate Connor’s bedroom furniture blindfolded. Connor’s hands aren’t quite as rough as his own, but there’s a texture there now that there hadn’t been when Connor first arrived.

His fingers fly down Hank’s shirt, divesting him of buttons and his soft plaid shirt. Connor’s fingers spread wide across Hank’s tattoo, running messily through the course hairs there. He’s softer now than he’d been at Connor’s age, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind what he sees. If anything, he grows shy about removing his own shirt now that he’s seen Hank, as if Hank hadn’t seen him in various states of undress for the past month and a half.

Hank takes his time with Connor’s shirt. He pauses after the top two buttons to tug it aside and suck at the pulsing point on Connor’s throat. He makes it through three more before taking a break to kiss at every freckle he can see on Connor’s chest and collarbones. When he bares one sharp shoulder, he nips at the juncture where it meets Connor’s neck. Connor moans a sound and Hank nearly takes a bite out of him; he wants to hear it again.

He leaves the side with the scar for last. He assumes this is the source of Connor’s nervousness. Even though Hank’s seen it dozens of times, he knows it’s different in this setting. Playing nursemaid was vastly different than filling the role of _lover_. He traces his fingers alongside the fading scar following it down to where it vanishes behind the waist of his jeans.

Hank leans into him, pressing him down and into the fluff of his bedding. It pillows around him as Hank palms at the growing bulge in Connor’s pants. Connor bucks into the touch and Hank wonders if it’s been as long for Connor as it has for Hank or if he’s always this responsive.

He holds Connor’s gaze with his hands poised over Connor’s fly. He arches an eyebrow in question, well aware they’re already past the point of no return. Connor nods and lifts his hips to help. He points to a small bedside drawer, flushing darkly. Hank yanks it open and tries to school his expression at the array of toys Connor keeps. Digging around, he finds what he needs and shoves it closed with his foot.

Either it’s been so long that Hank’s forgotten what it’s like or Connor is obscenely, blissfully tight. Connor’s breath hitches at the press of Hank’s finger and his teeth find his bottom lip when Hank adds a second. Connor’s breath is too quick, his eyes too wide, and Hank follows his gaze to the very telling, very large bulge in his own pants.

Hank leans into Connor’s space, bending and brushing his fingers until Connor writhes, “Not gonna hurt you.” Connor exhales a soft _oh_ as Hank continues his gentle perusal. Hank waits, working patiently, until Connor’s hold on the bedding relaxes from that of a panicked death grip to twitches of pleasure. He knows a spooked animal when he sees one; Connor doesn’t need breaking—he needs tender, gentle touch.

He could be rough, he knows. Connor certainly annoyed him often enough to fuel that fire, but Hank had spent too much time with him for his ire to linger. He knows Connor’s favorite movie and how he takes his tea. He knows where Connor stores his spare toilet paper and how he likes to organize his pantry. He knows what Connor’s mouth tastes like and what his moles feel like dragged across his tongue. He knows too much for a detached, angry fuck.

The first thrust is slow and Connor grips at Hank’s wrist the entire time. Hank’s fingers brand into Connor’s hips. He wants to buck and thrust with wild abandon, to tear into Connor until he screams and begs—until Hank’s name is the only word he can remember or think to shriek.

He wants to, but he won’t. Not yet. Not tonight.

Connor pulls him down by the neck and Hank drops to his elbows, rocking into Connor like the ocean lapping at the shore. His stomach sways, dragging over Connor’s dribbling, flushed erection, pressing it between them. Connor cries out for the first time and it’s a feral, primal sound; Hank knows he’s close.

Connor’s fingers weave into his hair as he trembles and whimpers through his orgasm. Hot come spurts between them and smears as Hank continues plunging and thrusting. Connor emits a low, overstimulated whine and Hank’s hips stutter.

“Do it again,” he rumbles against Connor’s jaw with a well-timed thrust. Connor trills out another high-pitched sound and it tips Hank over the edge. Heat courses up his shaft, drowning them both in a roar as his hips slam home one last time. Connor’s finger’s dig trenches into the meaty, muscly flesh of Hank’s back, his breath hot and harsh in Hank’s ear.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but Connor’s legs remain wrapped around his waist in a silent plea for Hank to stay. When he finally pulls away, Connor watches him with wary eyes. He stomps to the bathroom to discard the filthy evidence of what they’d just done. He comes back with a warm, wet towel and Connor makes a passable attempt at wiping away lubricant before tossing the rag in the general direction of his hamper.

It’s awkward and grows worse the longer Hank stands there naked staring at Connor’s body glowing in the dim afternoon light. He wants to nap or eat or do both at the same time, but Connor is staring at him like he desperately needs something he can’t ask for.

Connor’s eyes dart to the bed then to Hank and a pink tinge appears on his cheeks before overtaking his forehead.

 _Ah_ , Hank thinks to himself. Connor wants him to stay.

So he does.

They’ll laugh about it as the years pass. How grouchy Hank was, how haughty Connor could be. Hank might push Connor into a pile of hay when he sasses him about it. Connor may yank Hank down into it when he offers him a hand to help him to his feet.

There were benefits to the solitude of their conjoined properties. When the chores were done and the horses stabled for the day, they could find new places to claim as their own. They christen the loft in the barn first—it was an easy and obvious choice. Connor blowing Hank behind a stable door while Hank gave directions to a lost driver was a great deal more exhibition than Hank bargained for—he retaliated that night by pinning Connor’s arms to the bed with one hand while the other stroked him mean and slow for the better part of an hour.

It’s a year before they officially merge the properties into one. Fifi and Sumo reach a truce. She curls up into a ball on Sumo’s haunch while they snooze in front of the fireplace.

Connor gestures at the sleeping dogs, “Who would’ve thought they’d ever get over their difference.”

Hank arches an ironic eyebrow at him from behind his reading glasses, “Funny. Could say the same thing about me and you.”

“Nah,” Connor leans against Hank on the couch, a wicked smile on his face, “I’m a sucker for a huge hog.” He gropes at Hank’s crotch and Hank startles before glowering down at Connor.

Connor pulls back his hand with a shrug, “What? I was talking about your pigs. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“The mouth on you, I swear,” Hank grumbles and averts his eyes to his book.

Connor grins at him and it’s all teeth, “What are you going to do about it?”

Hank smacks him in the face with a couch cushion, a small smile on his lips as Connor splutters and recovers. It’s easy, this thing between them. He’s happy. He thinks he may be in love.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he already has Connor’s whole heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter]()


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